Sermon 100425

Sermon 04/25/10
Walt Whitman, LEAVES OF GRASS, excerpts

Our Kinship With All Life "Our deepest selves-

our very cells and molecules-

are alive with reminders

of old, enduring connections

with other creatures,

resemblances that run right down

to the roots of the tree of life."

Jennifer Ackerman

. . . for you shall be in league

with the stones of the field,

and the wild animals

shall be at peace with you.

Job 5:23

A week or so ago I received a card that I really love. It has a picture of two dinosaurs standing on a tiny island in the middle of a vast ocean. In the distance Noah's Arc is floating away from them. As they see the ark with all the animals in it drifting farther and farther away one dinosaur says to the other, "Crap, was that today?" Talk about the ultimate "missing the boat" experience.

It's in interesting image to ponder as we commemorate Earth day today. Have we allowed things to get so bad that we've already missed the boat?

While a lot of progress has been made over the past forty years, there is still much to be done. And the work that lies ahead is even more difficult because it is not as visible as prior work has been and it may not yield results until long into the future.

What can religion or spirituality offer?

Too often it has been part of the problem:

Viewing the world as evil or less-than,

Espousing heaven as our true (other-worldly) home,

Imagining God as a supernatural being

Walt Whitman offers us a path forward with his poetry and the sense of kinship with life that it expresses and invokes.

Kinship refers to the power of our relatedness with one another and with all creation. It is not a sentimental idea, but a deep truth that is expressed even in our genes.

Jennifer Ackerman, in her book, CHANCE IN THE HOUSE OF FATE; A NATURAL HISTORY OF HEREDITY, writes;

Scientists probing the deep workings of organisms from yeast to human have turned up news that despite our outward differences of life and limb, we are run by similar genes and proteins, similar cell parts and mechanisms, which have weathered evolution over ages, passing nearly intact through hundreds of millions of years of rising and falling forms. These shared molecules and routines affect nearly all the turnings of life, from birth to growth to perception and behavior.

Ackerman, p. xi

Ackerman goes on to offer some specific genetic similarities that are a lot more surprising than the well known fact that 98% of our human genetic material we share with chimpanzees.

When scientists deciphered the intimate details of mating in yeast, that single-celled fungus that raises our bread and brews our beers, they got a shock. The molecule that draws two yeast cells into sex closely resembles one made by our own brain cells to regulate reproduction.

The likeness seemed a fluke at first. But then other examples popped out of the box: genes that shape the bodies of fruit flies so like our own body-shaping Hox genes that one can put a human Hox gene into a developing fruit fly embryo, and it will carry out the job of the fruit fly's gene without a hitch; genes that shape the marvelous globe of the human eye strangely similar to those that carve the compound eye of a fruit fly; the tiny genetic mechanisms that drive our biological rhythms, keeping us in tune with the big swing of night and day, matching those in algae. So, too, do we share with other organisms the ancient genes that dictate cell death, the phenomenon that underlies metamorphosis, turning tadpoles into frogs and caterpillars into butterflies and also shapes out bodies, whittling away the webbing between fingers before birth, eliminating inappropriate sexual organs. Common to all of us, as well, is a suite of small, sturdy messenger molecules, offering clues to such mysteries as why the cells of the human brain respond to the chemical messages of the poppy plant and to the potent sexual attractants of a Himalayan deer.

What are chemicals found in the human body doing in plants, fungi, bacteria? How can genes that shape a fruit fly be near twins of my own?

Disparate organisms, it seems, are more radically alike than we ever imagined. Our deepest selves-our very cells and molecules-are alive with reminders of old, enduring connections with other creatures, resemblances that run right down to the root of the tree of life.

Ibid., p. xii

The power of our relatedness to all the other forms of life on our planet is not an abstract sentiment, but a deep, physical, genetic reality that is woven into our being.

What would a spirituality/theology based on a kinship with all life look like?

1) Radically Incarnational.

The physical world is not divorced from the spiritual world. The world is not something to be overcome, subdued or subjugated.

Nature/creation is the primary mode of Divine Presence and revelation.

God is incarnate in all of creation, not just in humankind. When a species goes extinct we lose a unique and unrepeatable form of Divine Presence.

2) Poetic.

It is creative, imaginative, intuitive, invitational, open-ended, and contextual.

It is not dogmatic, rigid, proscriptive, narrow-minded or authoritarian.

It is earthy, sensuous, embodied; it sings and dances!

3) Intellectually curious.

Respect for science as science; scientific method, . . . .

Honors the questions as much as the answers.

4) Ethical.

Ethics expressed as responsive living within the earth community. Mutuality with creation.

Respects, protects and nurtures the sanctity of the natural world on its own terms.

Celebrates diversity, novelty, etc. (nature loves diversity)

Adaptive and contextual.

5) Creation centered.

The goodness of creation is the starting point, not something that needs to be proved.

Distinct from fall-redemption theology.

6) Justice centered.

The liberation and fulfillment of life and of creation would be a fundamental principle.

Life is not just individuals, but systems, and these also need protection.

Working to sustain the balance of life, and to develop and maintain sustainable lifestyles would be primary goals.

Creation matters.

Kinship affects not only perspective and behavior, but morphology as well. Jenifer Ackerman writes about how a salamander's natural cannibalistic behavior and physical size and shape is altered by the powerful pull of kinship ties:

David Pfennig, a biologist at the University of North Carolina, has found that a tiger salamander raised with a group of siblings develops into a small invertebrate-eating creature. But if the salamander is reared in a mixed brood, with nonrelatives, it grows into a larger, cannibalistic beast, with a broad snout and long curved teeth designed for catching and ingesting other tiger salamanders, usually distant relatives. Tadpoles of spadefoot toads undergo similar morphological changes in response to the presence or absence of kin.

Even plants show sensitivity to relations. Wild garlic surrounded by genetically identical neighbors grows bigger and better than garlic surrounded by unrelated plants. Plantains and pokeweed also flourish when potted with kin.

Ibid., p. 135

What might happen if we as a species developed a greater awareness and deeper appreciation of our kinship with all life?

The roots of our relatedness are woven into our genes and if spirit could listen to matter for a moment it might reveal a mutual belonging here on this earth and empower a greater compassion to care for and nurture the only home we have.

It begins with our awakening, our seeing, recognizing and loving our kin, which is all creation.

To paraphrase Whitman, "How could we wish to see God better than this?"

Excerpts from LEAVES OF GRASS

by Walt Whitman

(First edition published in 1855)

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess

the origin of all poems

You shall possess the good of the earth and sun . . . . there are

millions of suns left,

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand

. . . . nor look through the eyes of the dead . . . .

nor feed on the spectres in books,

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things

from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

. . . .

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and joy and

knowledge that pass all the art and argument of the earth;

And I know that the hand of God is the elderhand of my own,

And I know that the spirit of God is the eldest brother of my own,

And that all men ever born are also my brothers . . . .

and the women my sisters and lovers,

And that a kelson of the creation is love;

And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,

And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,

And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heaped stones, and

elder and mullen and pokeweed.

. . . .

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork

of the stars,

And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and

the egg of the wren,

And the tree-toad is a chef-d'ouvre for the highest,

And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven

And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,

And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue,

And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels,

And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the

farmer's girl boiling her iron tea-kettle and baking shortcake.

. . . .

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and

each moment then,

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own

face in the glass;

I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one

is signed by God's name,

And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will

punctually come forever and ever.

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